


Cotton Candy, Orange Slices Skies

by treesblooming



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Day At The Beach, Established Relationship, M/M, Slice of Life, another Soft fic because this is my aesthetic for them after Idiots, set in the not too far future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-09 23:10:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19895905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treesblooming/pseuds/treesblooming
Summary: They simply closed their eyes, said Out of Town, Away From the City and By The Seaside. When they opened their eyes, There they were.OR Aziraphale and Crowley take a much needed vacation.





	Cotton Candy, Orange Slices Skies

**Author's Note:**

> Ngl, this fic was hugely inspired by my own vacation to the beach. This started out as a Twitter fic, originally found [here](https://twitter.com/mshinnsfw/status/1152511152565284866). And I've decided to upload it up here too.
> 
> There is a playlist that comes with this, which I can't seem to link. However, if you are curios, the songs, in this order, are: Can You Feel the Love Tonight (Elton John), Love Me Tender (Elvis Presley), Rest on Me (Xenia), I Want to Hold Your Hand (The Beatles).

They didn't really have a specific place in mind. They simply closed their eyes, said Out of Town, Away From the City and By The Seaside. When they opened their eyes, There they were.

It's tranquil and vast. The sun rises and paints the sky a cotton candy pink, color reflected on the sand. The clouds move in a lazy pace, in contrast with the sea that rolls to the shore in small waves at this hour of the day.

They take time exploring, shoes foregone in exchange for the feeling of their feet sinking into the wet sand. Aziraphale gives an experimental wriggling of his toes and Crowley hides his amused smile behind a hand.

Crowley has changed his pants for knee length shorts. The shades have been tucked away, exposing the unabashed awe in his eyes. He has been growing his hair again, long curls that tumble past his shoulders. Crowley prefers it tied or braided in a long tail but now he's let it loose, the wind whipping it around. Aziraphale tries to capture words, to describe what he feels, seeing Crowley like this. Breathe taking. Glorious. Divine.

Aziraphale himself has rolled his pants until his calves, snapped his coat Elsewhere. Crowley is distracted by the sky, at first. But when he finally does notice, he nearly stumbles on nothing. He's used to Aziraphale buttoned up. Rare does he take off his cost. Rare does he expose this much skin. Crowley tries not to stare at the sea winding through his feet, splashing against his calves.

There is only a spatter of people, the only evidence that they have not yet left the planes of Earth. Some are early morning joggers; others are watching the sun change from a pastel pink to a blinding blue. A few of them have chosen to go swimming, shrieking when they find the sea far too cold at this time.

Somewhere along the shoreline, Crowley slides his hand into Aziraphale. Aziraphale squeezes his hand as he points out the rising land in the distance, talking about the windmills.

*

They return to the beach later afternoon, when the sun has risen and the tide has pushed further up the shore. The sea laps against the tree line but they've managed to find an area in between where the branches above break, allowing sunlight to pour in.

Aziraphale spreads the blanket (tartan, he had joked. Red, Crowley had insisted) and holds it down against the wind with their picnic blanket on one side and their slippers on the other. They had packed light— some sandwiches, some tarts. Blocks of cheese, fruit soaked in honey. A thermos of— well, water for now. It should be easy to swap it out once they've decided what they want.

The spot is excellent. They lunch there. Crowley nibbles what Aziraphale feeds him, licking the angel's fingers when he presses the honey soaked berry against his mouth, tongue chasing the honey dripping along Aziraphale's hand. Aziraphale laughs, tickled, but doesn't pull away. They end up keeping the water, deciding that wine might be better suited for when they wind down in the evening.

The rest of the afternoon is spent on lethargic indulgence. The towel they'd brought is balled into a pillow Aziraphale lays his head on. He has brought a book— a charming reimagining of Shakespeare. He scoffs at the inconsistencies and smirks at the parts speculated, but were true. He uses the book as a shield from the sun and does not move away.

Crowley, on the other hand, has fully embraced the sun. He is stripped down to just the pair of shorts he'd been wearing earlier. His hair is kept out of the way, tied in a high knot. When the sea has receded, he moves closer, out of the shade, to lie on the sand. He basks and allows himself a slight nap, aware of Aziraphale’s flitting gaze to him every now and then. The warmth of the sun, mixed with the cool sand against his back is perfect. When he turns to lie on his stomach, he makes a show of flexing his shoulders, knowing that Aziraphale is watching.

And that's how time passes. It doesn't take much effort to whisper a suggestion to the general populate to steer clear of the area, make sure they're left alone. Later, Aziraphale puts down his books and sits himself beside Crowley. He places a hand on the demon's back; appreciating the warmth and watching the red imprint of his hand fade from Crowley's skin. Crowley hums and then makes a noise like a stifled groan when Aziraphale bends to trail kisses along his spine.

"Nnnggg-- don't stop," he says, when Aziraphale reaches the edge of his shorts. Aziraphale laughs.

"There'll be time for indecency elsewhere. Besides, you have too much sand on you."

"Such a tease," Crowley says but sits up, leaning against his arms. Aziraphale gives him a kiss— on the mouth this time, his peppered with sand— and tells him there'll be time for that too.

Crowley huffs but doesn't push. Instead, he gets up, goes to swim off the sand. His shorts slip by just an inch. Aziraphale is sure that was intentional, so that he can catch a glimpse of pale skin, which emphasizes Crowley's tan.

A tease, Aziraphale agrees. A delightful temptation.

*

In the morning, the sun rises on the dot.

"Let's go rowing," Aziraphale suggests. Crowley conjures a small boat. It's a bright orange, with two black oars. They fumble for a bit; argue about who is rowing incorrectly and what direction they should be heading. Once they've gone far enough from shore, they stop and let themselves be carried by the sea. The sky is a light blue today, with hints of orange slivers slicing in between thin clouds.

"We could live here," Crowley muses out loud. He's stretched out, hands behind his head, looking at the sky and at nothing in particular. The sea will not spill inside, they've made sure.

"We could," Aziraphale echoes. "But not yet. There are too many things I'd like to see." With you, but of course there was no need to say this out loud.

"But we'll come back?"

Aziraphale circles his fingers around Crowley's ankle, runs his hand over his feet, brushes off the sand. He thinks of how Crowley looked yesterday, sun kissed and languid, chasing wave after wave. Of how he looked this morning, hair rumpled and spread out on their bed, standing out amongst the white sheets. Of how he doesn't feel the need to hide his eyes.

"Of course. Just say the word."


End file.
